


Not Guilty By Reason Of Insanity

by ambersagen



Series: Stiles-Centric One Shots [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullying, Burning alive, Child On Child Violence, Child Stiles Stilinski, Dark fic, Disabled Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Hospitalized Peter Hale, Hurt Peter Hale, Hurt Stiles, Slurs, Stiles Stilinski-centric, Stiles whump, Suicidal Thoughts, abuse of an invalid, burning at the stake, extreme violence towards a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-12-18 07:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18245414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambersagen/pseuds/ambersagen
Summary: “Ugh. You guys are so stupid. There’s nothing cool or scary about the tree, only babies want to do dares out here.” Stiles kicked at a rock on the ground, sending it skipping into a bush and out of sight as the light started to fade under the tree shadows.Greenburg scowled at him. “You didn't have to come. I don’t know why they invited you anyway. Everyone in school knows you're the biggest crybaby around, itchy twitchy Stilinski.” He smirked, clearly feeling like he had won.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small idea I wrote while trapped at work during a hellish week. Inspired by the irl slender man inspired attempted murder in the states a few years ago.

“Where are we going?” Stiles whined, kicking at a rock on the path as he stared around at the seemingly never ending trees. “If you got us lost Greenburg I swear I turn into a ghost when we die and I will haunt you. I don’t want to get eaten by cougars.”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m not lost. Jackson said to meet by the weird tree,” Greenburg said, but Stiles was pretty sure he was at least a little lost. Greenburg was the most unlucky kid in the fifth grade. If there was a way to die in the forest three steps from civilization Greenburg would do it.

“Ugh. You guys are so stupid. There’s nothing cool or scary about the tree, only babies want to do dares out here.” Stiles kicked at a rock on the ground, sending it skipping into a bush and out of sight as the light started to fade under the tree shadows.

Greenburg scowled at him. “You didn't have to come. I don’t know why they invited you anyway. Everyone in school knows you're the biggest crybaby around, itchy twitchy Stilinski.” He smirked, clearly feeling like he had won. 

“Whatever,” Stiles muttered back. It’s not like name calling was anything new. 

“Hey! Get over here stupids!” they heard from up ahead, and both boys rushed forward, each secretly relieved to not be lost in the forest. Which, despite what Stiles had said, was actually a little creepy to be honest. 

In the clearing Jackson, Ethan, and Danny were waiting for them, all looking smugly at the nervous way both younger boys ran up to join them. 

“Look who finally showed up,” Jackson said, moving to stand in front of them with his arms crossed. “We thought you would be too scared to show.”

“I told you,” Ethan grinned, and Stiles took a small step backwards. That was not a nice smile at all. “Freaky Stilinski wouldn’t be scared of the cursed tree. He probably likes it here.”

“If you guys just called me out here to be buttheads I’m leaving,” Stiles said, earning matching sneers from all the boys but Danny, who as usual looked uncomfortable and like he was trying to ignore everything around him. “You said you had something to show me.”

“Oh yeah,” Ethan was smiling again and Jackson looked eager. “We do have a few things to show you, freaky Stilinski. And in return you’re going to show us your freaky black magic!”

“What?” Stiles was so confused, but a nod from Ethan was obviously a signal to the other boys and in a heartbeat they all jumped him. He went down with a shout, the other boys laughing as they wrestled him to the ground. He was small for his age and it wasn’t in anyway a fair fight. Danny threw some rope to Jackson and between the three of them the boys wrestled Stiles over to the big, black tree in the middle of the clearing. Together they ignored his shouting and flails, managing to wrap the rope around him and the trunk until he was all tied up to it. 

“What are you doing? Let me go! This is too far guys!” He struggled, but it was no use. His feet were a little off the ground from Ethan pinning him to the tree while the others tied the rope tightly behind the trunk.

“Oh lighten up freak,” Jackson said, half breathless from the struggle and hair flopping over his face. “We just want to make sure you don’t get away, witch.”

“Yeah!” Greenburg said, eyes practically glowing with excitement at being included with the powerful kids for once. “We know you talk to dead people. You’re always muttering that freaky witch language to yourself. I bet you come out here all the time to do dark magic and sacrifices and stuff!”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles could feel tears forming, but ground his teeth against letting them out. His wrist throbbed something fierce from having twisted it when they tackled him and he was actually getting quite scared. The boys looked seriously wild, hopped up on adrenaline. “I don’t speak witch language! It’s Polish. Just because you are too dumb to understand the concept of a second language-”

Ethan threw a stick at him, and he yelped when it hit him over the eye. “Shut up witch! We’ve all heard you talking to your dead mommy. We are going to keep the town safe from you and your black magic! Gather the pyre!”

Snickering, Jackson and Greenburg started running around, grabbing any loose sticks and branches they could find around and throwing them at the ground around Stiles.

“Guys, it’s getting late,’ Danny said, watching their antics nervously. “We scared him enough, we should go home before it’s too dark to see.”

“Oh don’t be a baby,” Ethan said, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and flicking it on and off dramatically. “We’ve barely scared the little witch at all. We gotta let him know who’s boss or he might think he can curse us all.” He tossed the lighter to Greenburg, who caught it like it was a grenade, looking both terrified and excited to be holding the forbidden item. 

“You guys are crazy! You’re going to get in so much trouble!” Stiles wiggled wildly against the tree while the other boys just laughed and whooped, grabbing more sticks and chanting “burn the witch!” as they acted out their game. 

“What do the spirits tell you, Stilinski?” Ethan laughed, holding two branches out like a cross. “Does your dead mommy talk to you or are you really crazy and talking to yourself all the time?”

“He might just be crazy,” Greenburg grinned, throwing a rock just to see Stiles flinch. “His mom was so crazy she killed herself!”

“Maybe you should do us all a favor and die too,” Jackson crowed, taking the lighter from Greenburg and waving it about menacingly. “Nobody likes you anyway!”

Stiles was crying now, but the other boys were feeding off each other’s excitement as they built up their story. Ethan pulled a small bottle of lighter fluid out of his bag and laughed at the utter fear in Stiles’ eyes.

“Bet the big baby cries if we use this,” he said gleefully, a swagger in his step as the other boys watched watched him with awe, impressed at the daring of the dangerous item. “Bet he pees his pants in fright.”

“Ethan, that’s dangerous,” Danny’s voice wobbled, and he watched with wide eyes as the older boy just shot him a disdainful look and unscrewed the cap. “We shouldn’t be playing with that!”

“Ugh, it smells,” Greenburg stepped back holding his nose as Ethan squirted an arch of fluid over the piled sticks, snickering as Stiles coughed and yelped as he got sprayed. 

“I’m going home!” Danny yelled, fists clenched. “You guys are stupid. You said we were just going to scare him, not mess with fire and stuff! Jackson!”

“Don’t listen to him, Jackson. He’s just a big baby too!” Ethan dropped the now empty bottle on the ground and grabbed the lighter from Jackson. “Come on guys! Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

“Burn the witch!” Greenburg shouted, picking up a stick and waving it around as he joined Ethan in a dance around the tree. 

Jackson paused, torn between joining in the fun and Danny, who was crying now too, shaking with nerves and anger at being ignored. “Uhhm. Maybe Danny’s right. I’m tired of this game anyway,” Jackson said, fear of punishment getting the better of him. “I don’t want to play with freaky Stilinski anymore, let’s just leave him.”

“Fine, you just run off you big babies!” Ethan yelled at the two boys as they backed away from the clearing, nerves getting the better of them. “You guys are just scared the witch will curse you, but I’m not scared!”

It didn't happen like in movies.

There wasn’t a slow motion scene of disaster happening, no hero to jump in at the last second to save the day. One moment Ethan was waving around the lighter like an asshole, and then it was airborne, hitting Stiles sleeve, the red spark rushing up into blue flame like a flash of lightning. In the time it took for the surrounding boys to step back in surprise at the sudden rush of heat and light, the flame had greedily run over every bit of gasoline, hair, clothing, and skin available to it.

Stiles screamed.

And screamed

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
  


And burned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blarg. I am writing very slowly. Here's a small bit just so you have something, and now this fic will end on chapter three!

The papers spun the story like this; Five innocent children corrupted by the internet and pressured by social media took to the woods that night to reenact a scene from a movie no one could quite seem to name. Danny and Jackson were heroes, having left as soon as things got tense to find an adult and put a stop to their misguided game. The two unnamed boys who walked away unharmed would be in therapy for the trauma of having been exposed to the evils of the internet and tricked into such a dangerous situation. The final, unnamed boy, was unfortunately in critical condition, and did not recover enough to speak in time to give his side of the story before the media moved on to other, more sensational news stories and other, more titillating murder attempts. 

The real story goes like this; Jackson’s father throws his weight as a lawyer and his money from that job around to bring his boy out of this smelling like roses while Danny is lucky enough to catch the tail end of some of that work.

Of course there had been attempts to bring the two boys to court, but when such young children commit such horrendous crimes no one is comfortable thinking about it too long.  In fact, John Stilinski is forced to step down temporarily as Sheriff while the investigation takes place. He goes, not quietly, but with the reality of a child hospitalized a three hour drive away in the nearest burn care center he bows to the inevitable. He can’t have both his job and his son. So he takes his leave, packing up and moving to a temporary apartment closer to the hospital where Stiles is undergoing treatment. 

The perfect storm of young, wealthy, male, children and lawyer fathers let the boys walk away without so much as a slap on the wrist. Jackson went back to his life, and Danny's parents moved out of town as soon as humanly possible to avoid any backlash their son had miraculously avoided with his remorseful actions. Ethan and Billy Greenberg went to court, got some community service and mandatory therapy to go along with the media’s portrayal of them as tragic victims whose lives would be forever ruined by a simple mistake. The boys kept their heads down and the world moved on.

Stiles didn't move at all, except with the assistance of nurses, for almost three weeks. 

The first few weeks after the ‘incident’ were full of pain and anger. Ironically, much of Stiles’ torso had been protected from the fire by the rope that had held him captive against the tree. The haphazard spray of lighter fluid the boys had drenched him had created a trail of third degree burns down his whole left leg and up from his shoulder across his chin. The first witness on the scene, a woman by the name of Debby who had been driving home from the store when Danny and Jackson had come running out of the woods in hysterics, told them that by the time she had arrived the fire had burned through the rope, causing Stiles to collapse face down onto the loose dirt and extinguishing some of the flames.

Healing was agony. The first 24 hours were a blur of pain and fear. The attack, his rescue, arrival at the ER and the arrival of his father, all memories of those events were covered in a haze of pain mixed with horrifying, dead numbness. His burns were complicated to clean, with so much debris from the forest mixing with melted clothing and ropes further mixed in with the blood and dead meat. They got him on the good meds, immediately dulling his remaining senses and turning the whole event into a nightmare in which he couldn’t move, or speak, or breathe. 

He wanted to scream, from pain and from stress, but his face was half gone, and the medication dragged him out of consciousness before he could even see his daddy. As he drifted into drugged darkness no one spoke to him, only over him, about him, because of him.

There were surgeries, things he couldn’t understand but left his unburned limbs aching and bandaged from missing skin they moved around his body like puzzle pieces. His dad was there now, but he wasn’t allowed to hug him and he was so sad, his head always hanging low like the air of the burn center was made of stone that might crush him every time he had to smile at his son and tell him everything would be ok. Stiles wished he could tell his dad the same. But he couldn’t say anything, and he sometimes wished his dad wasn’t there at all, not if he wasn’t allowed to hug him. 

Sometimes Stiles imagined he was dead. He was dead and mummified under bandages and silence. He was a ghost that his father talked to in a silent room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I have no self control and this is gonna be a bit longer than I expected! Tags have also been updated.

 

The thing about being a child in long term medical care was that it made people, even trained professional adults, uncomfortable if they had to think too long and hard about your existence. Sad stares, hushed voices, patronizing smiles and reassurance that everything would ‘be alright’. He couldn’t stand the way everyone was so aware of how hurt he was but pretended so hard that he was fine, or would be someday. He had to escape, but running away wasn’t an option, so Stiles taught himself how to be a ghost on the outside as well as on the inside.

He also learned that he wasn’t the only ghost haunting these halls. 

The other ghost in the hospital was an adult. His name was Peter Hale. 

Peter spent his days in a terribly basic wheelchair, one of those pokey chairs that barely worked as a temporary seat. It could only be moved if someone pushed very hard from behind, and it didn’t have any of the fancy electronic controls Stiles saw on other wheelchairs used by long term patients. But that didn’t seem to matter too much to the staff since Peter Hale never moved. At least, he never moved himself. Plenty of other people moved him, various nurses and volunteers carting him this way and that, tucking in his limbs and blankets like they tucked him out of the way in various corners where they wouldn’t have to think about his existence too hard. Stiles found him a few times the first week after he figured out how to wander properly. The morning nurses were fond of propping the man in the dining hall around breakfast time. They would feed him like one of those baby dolls Lydia had in kindergarten that ate and pooped, not caring that anyone and their uncle could watch as he dripped and dribbled his way through automatically eating the mushy applesauce and other liquid-solids the hospital offered disguised as meals. 

Afternoons Stiles would sometimes see Peter in the hall with the big window on the second floor. He wondered if maybe the nurses had mistaken the man for a plant. They got him sunlight enough, but Stiles had never seen anyone water him. He wondered what it would be like to be thirsty but have no way of getting water. Peter couldn’t move to get himself a glass of water, or ask for a drink, or blink in Morse code - although Stiles had spent an afternoon making sure of that last one, winking and blinking until a doctor had chased him off. For days after that whenever he saw Peter he got a shaky, trapped feeling in his arms and chest, as if ropes were still holding him trapped and fire was melting his face and no one had even a glass of water to help him. He wonders if Peter feels phantom flames whenever his tongue gets too dry.

His therapist says these thoughts are natural, driven by his PTSD, and diagnosis him with severe ADHD. He gets medications that make his stomach hurt and his mind focused like a camera zoom. It doesn’t fix the constant worry, but it does let him actually focus enough to ghost into Peter’s room and read his chart. It turns out the nurses do water him every few hours, but now he worries about whether it feels like drowning to have someone hold water to your face until you automatically drink or choke. He’s pretty sure these new pills won't be helping with his PTSD whatever anytime soon.

Some nights Stiles can’t sleep at all. There’s so much anger inside of him sometimes, and he finds that he can spend hours laying in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling and hating the boys who did this to him. He imagines increasingly gruesome deaths for Ethan, dreams of kicking Jackson in his perfect teeth. He wants to tie Greenburg up and leave him alone in the forest to die. He hates them, hates everything. 

The rage isn’t always there. Sometimes he is numb, unable to care one way or another about how drastically changed his future is now. Some nights he is just tired and falls into a deep sleep that always leaves him feeling a little disappointed to wake up again. 

So no, not always angry. Not every night, but enough nights that he develops a routine. When the he pain of his healing skin gets to be too much, burning like he was on fire still it drives him out of his bed and into the dim and empty halls. He wanders from room to room like a shadow, avoiding the night shift easily as they walked like living, breathing people with loud, solid steps. They were real and walked through the world like they fit, but Stiles was invisible, and so walked the halls silent and watching. 

That was how he knew. 

The first time he saw her, blue scrubs almost shining in the darkness, he didn’t understand. He saw the way she touched Peter, hands lingering in low places while she leaned in so close Stiles wondered if her mouth tickled Peter’s ear as she whispered secret things into it. He didn’t know what it meant at first that her nails pressed into the man’s thighs, that she dragged her mouth along his jaw as he sat, unresisting and blank, unable to comment or react to her body pressing always closer against him. Stiles didn’t understand, but he knew he didn’t like it. 

Stiles was ok with living as a ghost. He had his freedom. No one cared much where he went or what he did as long as he was quiet and out of the way. His father had good days where he could even look at Stiles and they could laugh and talk together without crying. Sometimes the hospital had volunteers over that were entertaining enough. But Peter, he didn’t have any of that. The man was invisible until he wasn’t, moved around like a puppet and ignored like a piece of furniture. Various nurses would occasionally take interest in the man and wheel him to a different room so he could stare blankly at a slightly different wall, but only  _ this _ nurse ever really talked to him or touched him, and Stiles doubted she was doing it to be nice. 

Peter never seemed to have any visitors, and Stiles used his nightly ghost walks to continue sneaking peeks at the man’s medical records. There were a lot of big words that he had to look up in the dictionary later but he eventually understood. Catatonic. Abandoned by relatives but practically made of money. In other words, he was a convenient paycheck for the hospital and completely helpless against anything they wanted to do with him. 

Stiles figured he could work with that too.

“I’m sorry about this,” he told the man as he walked them both down yet another empty hallway, his hands slightly sweaty on the handlebars of Peter’s wheelchair. “I thought you might like it if you could get out a bit, see something different for a while but I can’t really ask you if that’s something you’d like. I mean, I could ask you but you don’t move or speak and you wouldn’t be able to stop me but I hope you don’t want to stop me. I know I wouldn’t want to wake up if my dad was gone and everything hurt all the time,” Stiles licked his bottom lip, wincing at the pain in the corner of his mouth. That burn wasn’t healing, always splitting open even though Stiles talked much less than he used to before he was burned alive. Sometimes, even with his dad and his freedom to wander as he please, sometimes even with all the doctors telling him how lucky he was to have survived and how well he was doing with his ‘recovery’ and that he would be able to go home any day, well. Sometimes he still wished he hadn’t ever woken up again after the flames had taken him away.

Taking Peter around became his new mission. He already knew how to be a ghost, so he took keeping himself and Peter off the staff's radar as a challenge. The two of them spent almost a week taking slow loops around the hospital's back halls, only reemerging for meals and medications. On the rare occasion anyone stopped to notice the boy and his comatose companion they did so with a superficial gaze, cooing over what a nice boy Stiles was to volunteer with the more needy patients and so on. Stiles was glad for the cover, but he still found himself thinking less and less of the adults around him as the days went by. They never noticed anything.

Of course his good luck couldn’t last forever. 

“What are you doing?” a voice barked out from right behind him, startling him out of his routine chat and walk with Peter. Stiles jumped, spine jerking sideways in shock and sending a sharp pinch of pain across his side and chest as the healing skin pulled at the movement. 

“You need to leave him alone. This isn’t a playground.” 

It was that nurse, the night shift one. Stiles stared at her as she stalked closer, each word said with the kind of sharp finality that made Stiles wonder if she wanted to slap each word into his face with the sting of her open palm. “You can’t just walk off with patients,” she said, giving him a piercing look. He didn’t know if she had ever seen him before but she must have known the Sheriff’s kid was a patient here. “If I see you bothering the other patents again I will have you reported. We won’t stand for hooligan behavior here. Now go away.”

She reached out, long fingers pinching sharply into his shoulder as she pulled him away from Peter, pushing him to the side with little effort and reaching to take hold of the chair. Stiles stumbled, caught himself, stepping back but not quite retreating. 

He was torn. His shoulder was throbbing and the pain made him want to run away, to hide until everyone forgot about him and he could be a ghost again, unnoticed and untouchable. But if he was a ghost then no one would care if this nurse hurt him. Peter was a ghost too, and no one had saved him from her wandering hands and cruel, stabbing fingers. If Stiles was a ghost no one would listen to him if he told them about what he saw in the dark. 

No one had saved him from being burned. Ethan, Jackson, every kid who had hurt him had walked away without a scratch, all while he slept fitfully in a lonely hospital bed. No one had stopped his monsters. No one had saved Peter from this monster either. 

He had to be brave. 

“I’m not the one who touches people in the dark, when no one can stop me,” the words fell from his lips like ice. If people expected him to always burn they would have another thing coming. “I know what you do with Peter when you think you’re alone. So maybe you should leave before I report you. I don’t think Peter would want you bothering him either.”

He shouldn't have been surprised at the hand that lashed out, catching him firmly across the jaw and knocking him off his feet in a burst of agony. His father was the sheriff, he knew adult hit children or worse all the time, he was a living example of the pain people could inflict on each other. 

But he was surprised, and the pain made him yelp like a kicked dog, but that was all he had time to do before she was on him like a bird of prey snatching an unsuspecting rabbit away to its death in those nature documentaries they played in the lobby at odd hours. Salty hot skin covered his mouth as she pressed her hand over his face to silence him. Those same sharp nails that had so often traced along Peter’s face were digging into Stiles’ sides as she lifted him and took him away, his vision bouncing along with her step as he tried and failed to struggle free. 

“It looks like I’m going to have to make a phone call,” she said, turning back down the hall she had appeared from and dragging him with her. “You feel a little flushed. I think you have an infection and you know what that means.” He did actually. He had gotten an infection for real the a few weeks ago and his compromised immune system meant no visitors bringing in outside germs for at least a week. “I’m sure your father will be relieved to have an excuse not to see your sorry face. And such a naughty boy you are, always skipping your physical therapy. They won't miss you there either, which is such a pity but really, it can’t be helped. This isn’t a daycare after all.”

"I think what you need is a good time out."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your patience! We have reached the end.

 

She didn't even look at him as she dragged him gasping along abandoned hallways. Her hand was like a brand where she squeezed him, her nails drawing blood at his chin and ribs. Stiles could barely breathe and fear was making his muscles shake loose like overcooked spaghetti. He tried to scream but all his words were locked in his throat, trapped behind his teeth.

They passed by door after door, never seeing another person who might stop whatever was about to happen. Stiles struggled feebly in her hold, but found no traction as the woman moved confidently towards somewhere. Peter was long gone, left abandoned several turns back until Stiles lost track of where they were in the hospital’s labyrinth.

When she stopped it was abruptly and with a pleased chuckle as she swung him against her side. 

"You’re going to stay in here and think about what you've done. Think about how wrong you were to stick your ugly nose into other people's business, and how you've wasted my time and caused such a problem." She let go of his waist, her other arm tightening around his head like a vice that would rather crush his skull than let him escape. 

He kicked weakly, frantic for air  — for freedom. She growled at him, giving him a vicious shake that left him stunned with pain as he felt the burn on his face reopening at the movement. Suddenly he was halfway airborne as she tossed him physically into a dark room and slammed the door shut with an ominous click of a lock, and he was left alone in the dark.

He lay on the cold floor, sticky blood tickling its way into his mouth as he gasped for breaths that just wouldn't come. Everything hurt so much and he couldn't seem to get his arms or legs to move right. He wanted to roll over, to crawl to the furthest corner to hide. Would she come back to hurt him? He shuddered, half choked out whimpers and ragged breathing the only sound in the room and he felt a fresh wave of fear when he remembered she warned him to be quiet. 

She was going to kill him. He had been so stupid, pretending he was untouchable. A ghost. But he wasn't a ghost, he was real and she had grabbed him as easily as he could pick up a rabbit and put it in a cage. He wasn't untouchable. He was vulnerable, breakable.

He should have known better.

 

~~~

 

Stiles was so tired. His stomach gnawed at him like an angry dragon, empty and burning even as he desperately swallowed sip after sip of water from the calcified tap over the industrial sink he had discovered at the back of what he figured was a disused janitor's closet. The only sounds of life beyond his own voice and the grumble of his stomach were distant and muffled, indistinguishable murmuring and low thrumming that might have been the sounds of traffic. After the initial horror of his situation war off and it became increasingly clear that he was all alone and she wouldn't be coming back any time soon to free him or kill him Stiles had spent days screaming himself raw, throwing the few objects in the room with him at the door and walls in the desperate hope that someone would hear. Someone would come for him. But a bucket and dustpan weren't much in the way of weapons or tools, not against a space that had been built to contain dangerous chemicals and protect against wandering, sticky fingers. He had eventually given up, his energy wasted and his body aching. 

No one had come for him, not even the crazy nurse. The smell of mold and the discomfort of the hard tiled floor were all he had for three days and nights, barely distinguishable from each other by the small sliver of light that snuck in through the cracks of the door. The air of the room wasn't cold, but it also wasn't warm, or fresh, or comfortable in any way, so he slept in fitful naps that only exacerbated the pain of his healing skin and the bruises he had gained attempting to escape. 

Stiles wondered if she meant for him to die here. Would they think it was an accident? That he had wandered off alone and gotten himself stuck? Stiles couldn't cry anymore, but his face was stiff with days worth of tears and fear regardless. Would his dad be sad when they told him Stiles was dead? Or would he be relieved that his broken kid was gone and he could be free? Stiles thought he could be ok with dying if it meant his dad could be happy again. His dad had been so sad and hurt because of him. He hoped that his dad could find a new family, a new son and wife who wouldn't die and only made him smile. 

He hoped dying would be easy this time.

He hoped Peter wasn't dead too. 

There was no telling how long it had been since the nurse had left him there, but enough time had gone by that when someone came for him it was a complete shock.

He shrank back against the wall, heart thumping madly in his chest as the sound of footsteps came closer, and it was all Stiles could do not to whimper. He was determined not to be a baby about this. He couldn't stop whatever was about to happen anyway. 

He wished his dad were here to save him.

Time seemed to slow as he watched a shadow cross over the small slit of light from the door, the footsteps coming to a halt in front of it. He held his breath, clenching his teeth and waiting for whatever was about to happen. Maybe she would let him go? She had scared him about as badly as she had the power to and she might think he wouldn't tell anyone what happened now that it was clear no one paid much attention to him anyway. Maybe he could leave, run away with his tail between his legs and never breathe a word about this to anyone. 

The lock clicked, the sound like a gunshot in the otherwise deathly silent room. 

Stiles waited, expecting the door to be slammed open in a rage, or ominously and slowly pushed open to reveal his doom, anything scary really. But nothing happened. The shadow flickered over the door crack again and he was left alone, door unopened. 

Was this it? Was she letting him go? He waited a few minutes, worried about leaving and terrified to stay. Was she waiting outside, ready to kill him the second he stepped out? Or did she mean to pretend this had never happened, leaving him to come up with his own explanation for having gone missing for so long. 

Slowly rolling to unsteady feet he tried to ignore his various aches and hurts as he made his way to the door. His hands shook as he turned the knob, and his stomach clenched in vicious, painful fear when he felt no resistance and the door pulled back easily under his hands. 

The hallway in front of him was dimly lit, all but the safety lights for the exit turned off for the night. Stiles wasn't sure what time it was but it must have been very late. He waited, straining to hear any sound of life at all but not even the squeak of a sneaker gave away any sound of life on this floor. He knew that the burn center was less populated than the regular hospital was, but it had always felt like good luck before when he had enjoyed being the only one sneaking around in the dark. Now it felt like a horror movie about to get serious. 

He stepped out into the hall. 

In all his nightly wanderings Stiles had managed to build up a pretty good mental map of all his favorite places. He knew which halls had comfortable chairs, and which ones had vending machines. He knew the routes of the night nurses and he had been a master of picking out security camera locations ever since his mother had died and he had begun spending long hours at the sheriff's station with little to occupy him. 

This hall he was less familiar with. There was nothing of interest here, just a long dark stretch of empty heading left and right. He didn't trust it. Slowly he stuck one foot out, choosing the left path since the shadow had gone right. It felt like a trap, but what else could he do? Nothing. So Stiles limped down the hallway, heart pounding and breathing labored as his body protested the movement after so many days of inactivity and abuse. Shadows flickered along the walls as the emergency light dimmed and buzzed ominously overhead. He felt cold, as if a chill wind was blowing up his spine instead of the still, stifling air of unused indoor space. 

A growl echoed through the dead silence, a sharp scraping noise from behind him making the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. 

Stiles froze, trembling but unwilling to turn around to face whatever horror was coming closer from behind. Some primitive, animal part of his brain was both screaming at him to hide and and warning him that any movement would mean death at the jaws of a predator. The scraping was paired with heavy thuds that shook the floor beneath his feet, the thing behind him getting angrier as it approached, a sharper quality from the snarl conjuring images of a monstrously huge muzzle curling back over dripping fangs. A sickly sweet laugh tinkled from somewhere further behind him and Stiles couldn't suppress the whimper of fear that her voice brought from him. He was going to die. 

"Poor boy. You just couldn't have stayed out of it, could you?" the nurse asked, her voice like a phantom in the dark. He stared blankly ahead, where the hall was still empty and he could pretend like all he had to do was walk down that path and out the door to be free and safe. 

"You had it all wrong though, poor, stupid kid." He heard the soft click of heels on the tiles, and the growling faded just a little as the nurse approached. "Everything I did was to help Peter. To make him stronger. To set him loose and guide him to his prey. To make those who hurt him suffer and die."

He shivered at her words, and like a puppet on a string Stiles felt his head turn. He had to know. 

He had to see. 

There were fangs. That was the first thing he noticed about the creature standing so many doors down from him and yet all to terrifyingly close. Its fangs were as long as his hand, and they were dripping and fully bared just as he had imagined. It had claws too, almost as long as its fingers and powerful enough to have scratched deep furrows in the floor beneath them. The creature shifted restlessly as the nurse raised a hand to pat its head, like it was some sort of well trained pet. It flinched under the touch, its angry rumbles picking up with a warning as she dug her fingers into rough, patchy fur that seemed to melt into skin and scars that looked terribly like the same scaring along Stiles’ own skin, seemingly oblivious to its discomfort. 

"It's too bad you have to die. I simply can't risk you spilling the beans on all these plans I've worked so hard to set into motion. But at least your death will help him.” She was staring at Stiles, even as the boy couldn’t take his eyes off the creature to give her his attention. 

“I think the blood wakes the wolf in him a little more every time he kills, you know. I'm not sure though, until now I've only set him loose on other animals.” Her hands caressed the creature lovingly, and it tilted its head ever so slightly towards her, but its growling never stopped. “I hope human blood will work much better than rabbits and deer," she smiled at Stiles, eyes bright like she was about to watch something amazing. "Go on Peter," sharp nails duck into the creature's neck, giving it a shake before releasing it with a shove, "time to gobble up your little snack."

The creature stepped forward at the push, gaze zoning back in on the boy before it with blank rage in its eyes.

Eyes Stiles had seen before. 

Human eyes.

"Peter?" he whispered plaintively, tears of terror falling down his cheeks as he stared into the raging, monstrous shape of the man he had pathetically been trying to care for. Peter, beast shaped and zombie-like, took a lunging step forward causing the boy to stumble back. 

"Peter please," Stiles begged as he tripped over his own feet, falling to the floor with a whimper of pain. "Please don't hurt me."

"Go!" the nurse yelled, and Peter responded with a roar. 

He leaped at the boy, claws slamming into the ground on either side of the child as Stiles fell back with a shriek, his head connecting with the tiles in a audible crack. 

Stiles cried out in pain, hands scrambling against the monstrous form over him as Peter reared back for the strike. Child sized hands weak from hunger and pain were nothing to the massive, snarling bulk, and Stiles could do little but scream as fangs and tongue and death snapped down towards his face. 

He squeezed his eyes closed, not wanting to see as he was eaten alive. Hot breath blew over his face, doing little to disturb his sweat and blood crusted hair but powerful nonetheless. He waited for pain, for tearing and biting and blood. Instead he got a rough touch of skin and bristles against his forehead, a hot snort of breath and a growl that vibrated through him from the skin pressed to him from above. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tighter, flinching back from the feeling of Peter breathing down his neck as fangs and nose followed the path of scars across his skin from face to collar. He gave a protesting whimper when something wet flicked across the back of his ear, Peter pushing the boy's head back to further nose into the bloody patch from where his skull had collided with the floor. 

"Peter?" Stiles whispered, his heart beating almost in his throat as the man continued this strange investigation of his prey. Fangs lightly skimmed Stiles’ skin as the sniffing continued and the distinct lack of savaging almost gave him hope. Peter recognized him. 

"Hey!" The pair gave identical full bodied flinches at the woman's screech of anger. "Stop playing around and kill the kid. Now Peter!"

With a snarl Peter pulled Stiles to him, curled razor tipped hands cupping the child against his chest as he turned to face the threat. Stiles gasped, the sudden movement jarring his head and reminding him of the reopened burn on his face. The sound of his pain seemed to anger Peter further, and he roared at the woman, but she must not have cared because even woozy and bleeding Stiles could vaguely see her stocking toward them with fury on her face. 

Stiles was shaking, fear of the woman warring with the danger of claws and fangs and rage around him, all combining with days of neglect and pain and worry. “Please, please, no please,” he was repeating mindlessly, like a prayer as the nurse came closer and Peter became angrier. He wanted this to be over. He wanted the horror to stop. 

“Peter please!” 

He felt Peter move, a surge of muscle and raw power as his claws lashed out. There was a wet thump, the nurse making a strange sound that ended in a gurgling choke. Stiles pressed closer to the man's chest, burying his face in the fur as he heard the nurse fall to the ground near them. 

Peter gave a strange shudder, growling almost to himself as he returned to his crouch above the boy, his movements more aware than the instinctual lunging and snarling of a moment before.

And that was it.

The hallway was silent except for Peter’s continued anxious, confused rumbles and Stiles’ own labored, gasping breaths. The nurse made no sound, her choking finished and her body still. The lights still flickered dimly and there was no sign of anyone else in the building having heard their shouting and subsequent fight. It was insane.

Stiles trembled, the fluttering of his heart working its way up his throat until hysterics broke through. He laughed and laughed, clutching tightly to the clumpy, coarse fur as the monster growled a bone shaking threat over him. He could feel hot saliva dripping from Peter’s fangs down onto his hair, but he didn’t care, laughter shaking him almost as much as the fear slipping icy fingers down his spine. 

“No one is going to help us,” he whispered, and the returning snarl from above him came with the prick of claws as hand-like paws reached down to cover him in a mimicry of a hug. Warm blood soaked through his shirt, sticking to his skin where Peter’s claws curled protectively around him. “I want to hurt them, Peter. All these horrible people.” Nobody cared about them. Everyone who had hurt Stiles’ until now had walked away without consequences. Someone had hurt Peter as well, if the crazy nurse was to be believed. Of course, she had brought her own kind of pain to both of them. Only people, monsters, took notice of people like them. Help never came, only long after the damage was done. 

Stiles could feel Peter’s heartbeat against the good side of his face. Strong. Still alive. Still fighting. 

“I want them to hurt so bad they never get up again. I don’t want them to ever have  _ anything _ again. They don’t deserve it.” He felt hot tears sliding down his face. It burned, the salt on his open wounds a small agony against the pain of pressing closer to the creature. “No one saves the monsters. We have to do it ourselves.”

Above him, still dripping blood and violence, Peter rumbled his agreement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this fic. Thanks for reading and I'm sorry for everything???!? Poor Stiles T_T
> 
> Up next in the Stiles Centric one shots is a shifter!Stiles fic that I SWEAR will have actual, for real Steter and not this pre-relationship stuff I keep indulging in.

**Author's Note:**

> This is only going to have two chapters. It's just a small idea I had and worked as an exercise to see if I can get some complete fics out there. Chapter 2 will be up tomorrow as soon as I figure out my taxes and other adult crap. 
> 
> This is a stand alone fic, part of a set of Stiles one shots I plan on writing. I may or may not add to these one shots.
> 
> **Please don't ask for sequels or updates, I know its from a place of love (and I so appreciate when people like my work) but I am a sad, anxious bunny who has bills to pay and a real life to live and it makes me feel enormously guilty when a comment is only about updating or not being satisfied with what I already shared. Just know I will always eventually return, and that I appreciate words of love or enjoyment rather than demands for more writing that I may not be able to do.**
> 
>  
> 
> Come say hello. I am a lonely person.  
> ambersagen.tumblr.com


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